


dear god

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Codas [29]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Confessions, Episode: s14e02 Gods and Monsters, Gen, Insomnia, M/M, Season/Series 14 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 15:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Sleep doesn't come.Not easily, anyway. At the most, Dean turns over and dozes, right on the precipice of sleep, before an image pops into his head and his body jerks, startling him awake once again. Repeatedly. The hours begin to blur together, and the numbers on the digital clock swirl, unfocused.For four months, Dean hasn’t slept, and now that he has the chance, he can’t—because he remembers. His eyes sting, his shoulder burns, and heremembers.





	dear god

Sleep doesn't come.

Not easily, anyway. At the most, Dean turns over and dozes, right on the precipice of sleep, before an image pops into his head and his body jerks, startling him awake once again. Repeatedly. The hours begin to blur together, and the numbers on the digital clock swirl, unfocused.

For four months, Dean hasn’t slept, and now that he has the chance, he can’t—because he remembers. His eyes sting, his shoulder burns, and he _remembers_. Visions of the lives his hands have taken, slain bodies at his feet; none of it makes sense, and the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to drown himself in century-old scotch, literally and metaphorically, whichever comes first.

Enticing as the thought of alcohol is, he doesn’t think he can stomach more than a few swallows. Last night’s dinner still weighs heavy in his gut, his first real meal in months, and he regrets every second of it. If only it didn’t hurt so bad—if only he could rest, then maybe the rest of his body could relax, unclench, even. _Fat chance_ , he thinks, rolling onto his side.

Briefly, Dean lets his mind relax, concentrating on the feel of his body, the tension bleeding out into the sheets. The small fan in the corner rotates monotonously, enough white noise to drown out the settling foundation, the HVAC dutifully attempting to pump mild air throughout the building. No footsteps, no rustling of fabric, no screaming—just his own breaths and fabric under his fingertips, and the night.

_And the blood_.

Dean barely has time to throw the blankets off before he flings himself from the bed, fumbling for his robe suspended from the wall hanger. A seam rips audibly, but he can’t begin to care any longer; if he can’t sleep, then there has to be something he can do, even if it is two in the morning. He could drive somewhere, walk to the curb store, hell, stand in the middle of a field and scream until he’s hoarse.

What he does instead, is find Castiel. Unintentionally, of course; a preliminary search for the keys to the Impala comes up with Castiel flipping through a worn paperback with his eyes closed. Not reading, just… listening. Page after page, he thumbs through, paper rustling between his fingers. Dean watches him for what feels like another hour before he approaches, bare footed and trembling, exhaustion living and breathing inside his ribs.

Only after he sits does Castiel look up, blue eyes opening incrementally. He looks older than Dean remembers, the circles under his eyes more pronounced, his mouth pulled into a deeper frown. All of that relaxes, though, the minute Castiel sets eyes on him, shoulders slumping; his fingers spread out, and Dean aches to cover them with his palm.

It would be so easy—so simple. If only he gave himself the chance. “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Dean admits, hands between his thighs. Head bowed, he watches Castiel shift, knees turning to face him. “It’s happening again, I’m… I don’t know how I got through it before. I mean, probably all the alcohol, but I can’t… I feel like I’m gonna hurl just thinking about it.”

“I wish I could tell you to stop thinking, but I feel it’d be redundant,” Castiel says, barely above a whisper. “I haven’t been able to stop as well.”

“Least we’re trapped in this together,” Dean scoffs. Castiel makes a noise, but doesn’t reply. “How’re you, man? Don’t gotta lie anymore, no one’s watching.”

Castiel doesn't answer immediately. Dean didn't really expect him to to begin with, but just having him here is enough to settle his nerves. That, and the hands that cup his cheeks, thumbs pressing just beneath his eyes. All Dean can do is blink and stare, stomach turning unpleasantly, and this time, not from heartburn. “I’ve been better,” Castiel says, his face falling once again. His hands soften, one slipping away; Dean laments the loss, but treasures the one that remains, Castiel’s warmth bleeding through. “I’m not who you should be concerned about. You… How are you, Dean? Really.”

“I don’t wanna be awake, for one,” Dean laughs, hollow. Castiel just shakes his head. Fingertips tease the shell of Dean’s ear, and Dean heats, toes curling against the tile floor. “Why can’t I forget? Why’s… Why’s it gotta always be so hard? I keep… seeing things that shouldn’t be there, and I can’t sleep, and this damn thing burns.” In haste, he slides his left arm out of his robe and pulls up his shirt sleeve, exposing the handprint there, raised and inflamed and _on the wrong arm._ He can’t even bring himself to touch it, from just how wrong it feels, nothing at all like salvation.

He might as well be damned once again, and this is the proof. The proof of his mistakes, seared into his skin, what feels like down to the bone.

Sympathy in his eyes, Castiel fits his hand over the mark, almost the same size, but not quite. Grace does nothing to quell the ache, and Dean’s eyes water just from the sadness on Castiel’s face, utterly helpless. “I’m sorry,” Castiel rumbles, his sigh almost deafening. “There’s nothing I can do. Grace always leaves a mark, but… this was more than intentional. This was meant as a reminder.”

“I know,” Dean says, swallowing. “I know, and I just… I don’t want it.” His knuckles blanch in his lap, hands shaking. “I don’t want these memories, Cas. You—You took them away from Sammy, why can’t—”

“I can’t,” Castiel says, just as Dean crumples, almost doubling over. Castiel’s hands keep him upright, dragging him forward until their foreheads press together, knees bumping. He can’t look at him—can barely even open his eyes, not while knowing Castiel is watching. “I can’t, Dean. What Michael has done to you can’t be fixed.”

“You gotta do something,” Dean begs. Rigidly, he clasps Castiel’s hands and sucks in breath after breath through his mouth, just to keep steady, to keep from passing out. “Please—"

Castiel holds him tighter, his grip crushing. As ashamed as he is to admit it, Dean needs it, needs the brink of pain to keep him somewhat lucid. “I can’t take your pain,” Castiel mourns. “Believe me, if I could, I would, but… I’m sorry.”

Dean knows—and as much as he knows, it still hurts, knowing that there’s nothing either of them can do. Grappling with Castiel’s collar does nothing but upset him, the fabric slipping in his hands. A cold sweat breaks out across his skin, and he smothers his face in Castiel’s throat, both disgusted and grateful for Castiel’s embrace. Gently, Castiel traces through his hair, hides a shivering kiss against his temple.

“Hate this,” Dean mutters, swallowing hard against the bile threatening to rise. _Calm down_ , he tells himself, to no avail. All he needs to do is breathe, breathe and center himself, ground himself into something— _into Castiel_. “Wish he would’ve killed me—”

“Don’t talk like that,” Castiel shushes. “We’ll get through this, but you have to trust us. You have to trust me, Dean.”

Shaking his head, Dean legs out a long, shuddering groan, one he can feel all the way to his toes. “Don't even trust myself,” he slurs. Exhaustion tugs at him, weighing him down in his own skin. “What if he comes back, finishes the job? Or he tries to… I can’t live with myself like this, not with this blood on my hands. How many more were there?” He pulls back enough to look Castiel in the eye, his own wet, tears spilling down his face. “Not just monsters, Cas. What if he killed people? What if I—”

“You never killed anyone.” Warm hands clasp his shoulders, nails digging into the brand. “These hands,” Castiel releases him to clasp their hands together, “are bloody, but they aren’t responsible for what Michael did. He used you, violated your trust, but you fought back. You won, Dean.”

Dean bites his lip—why does winning feel like death? “Should’ve listened to you,” he admits. “God, I’m so fucking stupid.”

“You're far from stupid,” Castiel says in all sincerity. “Do you trust me?”

“Course.” Dean nods, wipes his face dry. Other hand still in Castiel’s, he laces their fingers together, hating how he still shivers. “You know I do, man.”

The kiss Castiel presses to his cheek nearly sets Dean aflame, but in an entirely different way than he expected. No pain, no threat of annihilation. Just acceptance, unconditional, a love unlike Dean has ever experienced. “Then believe me when I say that I’ll do whatever I can within my power to keep you safe. Whenever you need me, I’ll be here.”

Years ago, and Dean wouldn’t have believed a word that came out of Castiel’s mouth, would’ve never trusted him to stay home for longer than five minutes before he flit off somewhere else. Never where Dean wanted him the most, always too far away for his liking. Now, though, the adamancy on his face leaves him winded, gives him hope. “I’m scared,” he confesses, and Castiel nods. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Recover,” Castiel says, kissing him again, this time to his lips. Soft, velvet; Dean turns and fits their mouths together again, tasting the salt on his tongue. “Rest.”

“Sleep with me,” Dean sighs, barely even ashamed. “Don’t wanna be alone, not anymore.”

“Of course,” Castiel assures. “I’ll try to keep the dreams at bay.”

Really, Dean could cry. Such a simple thing, but it means the world. Now, more than ever. “Thanks,” he says, running his thumb over Castiel’s. “Can’t tell you how much…”

Castiel tightens his hold and smiles. So human—Dean couldn’t love him more if he tried. “I know,” he hums. “I know, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> For something so short, this really shouldn't've taken as long as it did, but I finished? I've gone through ten different fics in the last two months and scrapped them all, so I'm counting this as an accomplishment. Maybe I'll write something else soon that I don't drop after the first few thousand words?
> 
> ANYWHO I'm ready for the handprint again, FEED ME THE ANGST. 
> 
> Title is from the Hunter Hayes song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
